norman rowland gale - poems -

Classic Poetry Series

Norman Rowland Gale- poems -

Publication Date:2004

Publisher:Poemhunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive

Norman Rowland Gale(1862-1942) Norman Rowland Gale (4 March 1862 – 7 October 1942) was a poet, story-tellerand reviewer, who published many books over a period of nearly fifty years. His best-known poem is probably The Country Faith, which is in the Oxford Bookof English Verse.

1www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive

A Dead Friend IT hardly seems that he is dead, So strange it is that we are here Beneath this great blue shell of sky With apple-bloom and pear: It scarce seems true that we can note The bursting rosebud’s edge of flame, Or watch the blackbird’s swelling throat While he is but a name. No more the chaffinch at his step Pipes suddenly her shrill surprise,For in an ecstasy of sleep Unconsciously he lies, Not knowing that the sweet brown lark From off her bosom’s feathery lace Shakes down the dewdrop in her flightTo fall upon his face. Norman Rowland Gale


A Prayer Tend me my birds, and bring againThe brotherhood of woodland life,So shall I wear the seasons roundA friend to need, a foe to strife; Keep me my heritage of lawn,And grant me, Father, till I dieThe fine sincerity of lightAnd luxury of open sky. So, learning always, may I findMy heaven around me everywhere,And go in hope from this to Thee,The pupil of Thy country air. Norman Rowland Gale


A Priest NATURE and he went ever hand in hand Across the hills and down the lonely lane; They captured starry shells upon the strand And lay enchanted by the musing main. So She, who loved him for his love of her, Made him the heir to traceries and signs On tiny children nigh too small to stir In great green plains of hazel leaf or vines. She taught the trouble of the nightingale; Revealed the velvet secret of the rose;She breathed divinity into his heart, That rare divinity of watching those Slow growths that make a nettle learn to dart The puny poison of its little throes. Her miracles motion, butterflies,Rubies and sapphires skimming lily-crests, Carved on a yellow petal with their eye Tranced by the beauty of their powdered breasts, Seen in the mirror of a drop of dew, He loved as friends and as a friend he knew.The dust of gold and scarlet underwings More precious was to him than nuggets torn From all invaded treasure-crypts of time, And every floating, painted, silver beam Drew him to roses where it stayed to dream,Or down sweet avenues of scented lime. And Nature trained him tenderly to know The rain of melodies in coverts heard. Let him but catch the cadences that flow From hollybush or lilac, elm or sloe,And he would mate the music with the bird. The faintest song a redstart ever sang Was redstart’s piping, and the whitethroat knew No cunning trill, no mazy shake that rang Doubtful on ears unaided by the view. But in his glory, as a young pure priest


In that great temple, only roofed by stars, An angel hastened from the sacred East To reap the wisest and to leave the least. And as he moaned upon the couch of death,Breathing away his little share of breath, All suddenly he sprang upright in bed! Life, like a ray, poured fresh into his face, Flooding the hollow cheeks with passing grace. He listened long, then pointed up above;Laughed a low laugh of boundless joy and love— That was a plover called he softly said, And on his wife’s breast fell, serenely dead! Norman Rowland Gale


An Orchard Dance All work is over at the farmAnd men and maids are ripe for glee;Love slips among them sly and warmOr calls them to the chestnut-tree.As Colin looks askance at JaneHe draws his hand across his mouth;She understands the rustic pain,And something of the tender southAbout her milkmaid beauty flits.Her dress of lilac print for guideDraws shepherd Colin where she sits,Who, faring to her lovely sideTo snatch his evening pension tries,But skimming like a bird from clutchThe maid escapes his Cupid touch,And speeding down a passage fliesNot fast enough to cheat his eyes.Ah, sweet-lip ways and sweet-lip days,And sweetheart captures of the waist,How swiftly still the virgin runsShe's sure at last to be embraced!Now Colin fires at kiss delayed,And faster flits the red stone floorTill Fortune yields the tricky maidA captive at the pantry door! The farmer with his fifty yearsIs not too old to join the fun;He pulls the milkmaids' pinky earsAnd bids a likely stripling runTo find the fiddlers for a dance:And in the cherry orchard thereA tune shall mingle with romance,And love be brave in open air. The village wakens to the bliss,The crones and gaffers crawl to seeThe country game of step and kissBeneath the laden cherry-tree.


The chairs and benches now are set,Old John is wheedled from his pet,The cider cup with beady eyesResponds to winkings of the skies.The farmer, burly in his chair,Now claps for ev'ry fond and fairTo foot it on the grassy patchWhile rustic violinists snatchFrom out those varnished birds of woodA tune to jink it in the blood.Now Jane and Colin in a triceFloat sweetly round not less than thriceBefore their motion draws a pairTo revel with the dancing air.The thrush, that on his velvet wipesHis juicy bill, protesting pipes,And, somewhat as a piccolo,Doth race the concord of the bow.A virgin yonder by the treeRejects a mate who saucilyWould press, if she might only start,Her modest homespun to his heart.Ah, sweet-lip ways and sweet-lip days,And sweetheart captures of the waist,Though like a finch the maiden fliesShe's sure at last to be embraced. The orchard now is in full bloomWith rosy cheek and snowdrop throat;The stars invade the growing gloom,And rarelier sounds the blackbird's note.But in this dewy little parkLove burns the brighter for the dark,And till he use a stricter ruleDear Cicely's cheek shall never cool!The fiddlers storm a tomboy tune,The shepherds closer clasp the girlsWhile skirts the more desert the shoon,And rebel leap the loely curls.The farmer glows within his chairAnd muses on the dancing timeWhen he and she--a matchless pair--


Were warm and nimble in their prime.God bless the man who, duller grown,Can feel the younger heaven anewBy granting to his maids and menA romp by starlight in the dew!Ah, greenwood ways and greenwood days,And soft pursuings of the waist,The cheek must yellow out of praise,And bent be those who once embraced! And now they pant against the trees,And, using darkness for their plan,Girls loose the garters at their kneesAnd mend the clumsiness of man.One virgin, thankful for the dance,About the music shyly trips--Her Love's a fiddler, and her lovePops fruit in Paganini's lips;Or finding on the starlit treeThe wife and husband cherry there,She hangs the couple at his cheekAnd hides the stalk with tufts of hair.The girls are at the cider-cup,And shepherds tilt the yellow baseUntil a giddy amber floodRuns, kissing, over Cicely's face,And Dora's upper lip doth shineWith winking beads of apple-wine.The fiddlers scrape a farewell tune,The dancers dwindle in the duskWhile summer puffs of easy windBring hints of cottage garden musk. And thus the revel dearly endsWith milkmaid's palm in shepherd's hand,And lovers grow from only friendsWhere plum and pear and apple stand.Ah, sweet-lip ways and sweet-lip days,And sweetheart captures of the waist,How fast so-e'er the virgin fliesShe's sure at last to be embraced!


Norman Rowland Gale


Bartholomew Bartholomew is very sweet,From sandy hair to rosy feet. Bartholomew is six months old,And dearer far than pearls or gold. Bartholomew has deep blue eyes,Round pieces dropped from out the skies. Bartholomew is hugged and kissed:He loves a flower in either fist. Bartholomew's my saucy son:No mother has a sweeter one! Norman Rowland Gale


Bees You voluble,VelvetyVehement fellowsThat play on yourFlying andMusical cellos,All goldenlyGirdled youSenerade clover,Each artist inBass but aBibulous rover! You passionate,PowderyPastoral bandits,Who gave you yourRoaming andRollicking mandates?Come out of myFoxglove; comeOut of my rosesYou bees with thePlushy andPlausible noses! Norman Rowland Gale


Cicely Bathing The brook told the doveAnd the dove told meThat Cicely's bathing at the poolWith other virgins three. The brook told the doveAnd the dove told meThat Cicely floating on the waveWoke music in the tree. The brook told the doveAnd the dove told meThat Cicely's drying in the sun,A snowy sight to see. Norman Rowland Gale


Content THOUGH singing but the shy and sweet Untrod by multitudes of feet, Songs bounded by the brook and wheat, I have not failed in this, The only lure my woodland note,To win all England’s whitest throat! O bards in gold and fire who wrote, Be yours all other bliss! Norman Rowland Gale


Cricket On The Hearth When red-nosed Winter takes the road,An icicle his walking-stick,When frost is on the woodman's load,And snow is falling fast and thick,Come, lusty youth and sapless eld,Let's make a circle round the blazeAnd talk of stumps,Of nasty bumps,That flew and came in sunny days.For Cricket is played again, again,At freezing time in Hull or Bath;When summer's done the game's not gone--There's Cricket on the Hearth! Here's Jones from Rugby, Eton Jack,And Grandpapa who, long ago,Loved hitting when the Field was slack,And crumped the bowling, swift or slow!No more he's nimble on the green,But what a history he tellsOf Surrey menAnd hits for ten,And heaps of most tremendous Swells!For Cricket is played again, again,At freezing time in Hull or Bath;When summer's done the game's not gone--There's Cricket on the Hearth! The girls may call to Hide-and-Seek,And lovely lasses take the floor;But we discuss the Lob and Sneak,The Canvas, Umpire, Over, Score!How great a game to fill July,May, June, and August with delights,Yet in the frostBe never lost,But stir the blood on nipping nights!For Cricket is played again, again,At freezing times in Hull or Bath;


When summer's done the game's not gone--There's Cricket on the Hearth! Norman Rowland Gale


Dawn And Dark GOD with His million cares Went to the left or right, Leaving our world; and the day Grew night. Back from a sphere He cameOver a starry lawn, Looked at our world; and the dark Grew dawn. Norman Rowland Gale


Golf Steals Our Youth Have you seen the golfers airyPrancing forth to their vagary,Just as frisky in their gaitersAs a flock of Grecian Satyrs,Looking everything heroic,And magnificently stoic,In a dress of such a patternAs would fright the good God Saturn? Have you heard them curse the sparrowFit to freeze your inmost marrow,When the ball, that should be flitting,On the grass remaineth sitting?Have you watched their cheerful scramblesIn the soft and soothing bramblesWhile the foe, elate and sneering,Passes gradually from hearing? After blaming all the witches,After rending holes in breeches,After getting in a muddleWith each rivulet and puddle,They return, a ll labour ended,To record their prowess splendid,And renew by dictionaryTheir fatigued vocabulary. Let these gentlemen ecstatic,In their costumes so emphatic,Crawl to find a rounded treasureIn the horse-pond at their pleasure.What so good when time is sunny,And the air as sweet as honey,At the game of crease and wicket,England's proper pastime--Cricket? Norman Rowland Gale


Holy Ground Shy maids have haunts of still delight,The lover glades he never tells;And one is mine where mass the brightAnd odoured chimes of foxglove-bells. A dewy, covert, silent placeWhere surely long ago God walkedClose to His creature's blinded face,And for his finer moulding talked. There hawthorn glows as if, white-hot,God present, it were sacred foundTo preach a creed too oft forgot--That all we tread is holy ground. Ah, could we but remember this,Our thoughts would spring as purely upTo labour for our fellows' blissAs doth to heaven a snowdrop's cup! Norman Rowland Gale


Most Anglers Are Very Humane The kind-hearted angler was sadly pursuingHis calling unhallowed of choking the fishes;He bitterly wept, for of course he was doingAn action most strongly opposed to his wishes! His vertabra shook as he musingly plannedHow kindly to threadle the worm he'd begun--itWas plain had the reptile possessed a right handThe penitent angler would gladly have wrung it! He cast in his float filled with tearful emotionAnd murmured "How fearful, how terrible this is!"And just at that moment, amid some commotion,He jerked out a panting and rather small piscis! "Unfortunate fishlet, what dread impulse brought youTo meddle with bait which I carelessly threw in?My dear little swimmer, I'm sorry I caught you,So please don't blame me for contriving your ruin!" "O barbel and salmon-trout, tench, dace and gugdeon,O ev'ry fat jack and each eel (not a conger)Why, why will you grieve me and stir up my dudgeon?Go, die on his hooks who has eyes that are stronger!" But, however, whilst moaning he pulled out a score,And continued his wonderful luck till at last--itWas plain that his soft heart could bear it no more,Too deep were his groans, and--too full was his basket! Norman Rowland Gale


My Country Love If you passed her in your cityYou would call her badly dressed,But the faded homespun coversSuch a heart in such a breast!True, her rosy face is freckledBy the sun's abundant flame,But she's mine with all her failings,And I love her just the same. If her hands are red they grappleTo my hands with splendid strength,For she's mine, all mine's the beautyOf her straight and lovely length!True, her hose be think and homelyAnd her speech is homely, too;But she's mine! her rarest charm isShe's for me, and not for you! Norman Rowland Gale


Oiling Excuse me, Sweetheart, if I smear,With wisdom learnt from ancient teachers,Now winter time once more is here,This grease upon your lengthy features!Behaving thus, your loyal friendNo whit encourages deception:Believe me, Fairest, in the endThis oil will better your complexion.Fairest, believe! Did you imagine in the bagTo sleep the sleep of Rip Van Winkle,Removed from sunshine's golden flagAnd duller daylight's smallest twinkle?Well have you earned your rest; but yet,Although disturbance seem uncivil,Unless your cheeks and chin be wetWith oil, your beauteousness will shrivel.Rarest, believe! Absorb, that, when for our delightThe May unpacks its lovely blossom,With beaming face, with shoulders brightYou leave the bag's congenial bosom.Then shall the Lover and his LassWalk out toward the pitch together,And, glorying in the shaven grass,Tackle, with mutual faith, the leather.Dearest, absorb! Norman Rowland Gale


Old Letters Last night some yellow letters fellFrom out a scrip I found by chance;Among them was the silent ghost,The spirit of my first romance:And in a faint blue envelopeA withered rose long lost to dewBore witness to the dashing daysWhen love was large and wits were few. Yet standing there all worn and greyThe teardrops quivered in my eyesTo think of Youth's unshaken front,The forehead lifted to the skies;How rough a hill my eager feetFlung backward when upon its crestI saw the flutter of the laceThe wind awoke on Helen's breast! How thornless were the roses thenWhen fresh young eyes and lips were kindWhen Cupid in our porches provedHow true the tale that Love is blind!But Red-and-White and PovertyWould only mate while shone the May;Then came a Bag of Golden CrownsAnd jingled Red-and-White away. Grown old and niggard of romanceI wince not much at aught askew,And often ask my favourite catWhat else had Red-and-White to do?And here's the bud that rose and sank,A crimson island on her breast--Why should I burn it? Once againHide, rose, and dream. God send me rest. Norman Rowland Gale


On Seeing A Train Start For The Seaside O might I leave this grassy placeFor spreading foam about my feet!The splendid spray upon my face,The flying brine itself were sweetIf I might hear on Cromer beachThe freedom of Old Neptune's speech! Ah, never language like to thisFor those whose ears can understand!Sometimes the coming of a kissTo mate the ocean with the strand;Sometimes the nameless oath is heardThe sea-god thunders through his beard! I have a sea of blue on high,I have a sea of green beneath;For me sweet inland birds do cryUntil with joy I hold my breath;But Ocean's harp of wave and stoneIs bird and leaf and stream in one! Upon my dancing apple-spraysThe blackbird whistles melodies;Half through a mellow run he staysAnd flashes to a neighbour's trees:He's rare, but rarer now would beThe strident pebbles of the sea. And is it strange that round the shoreThe lyric water should rejoice?Ah no! for ever more and moreThe happy dead are in its voice.Majestic poet! might I beAs full of song, as finely free! Norman Rowland Gale


Song - Wait But A Little While WAIT but a little while— The bird will bring A heart in tune for melodies Unto the spring, Till he who ’s in the cedar there Is moved to trill a song so rare, And pipe her fair. Wait but a little while— The bud will break; The inner rose will open and glowFor summer’s sake; Fond bees will lodge within her breast Till she herself is plucked and prest Where I would rest. Wait but a little while— The maid will grow Gracious with lips and hands to thee, With breast of snow. To-day Love ’s mute, but time hath sown A soul in her to match thine own,Though yet ungrown. Norman Rowland Gale


The Amateur Photographer Beware of those who slyly pilchIn many cunning ways;Beware of little lyres that filchFrom undisputed bays!Beware the tumbler's beaded brim,The ass in fiercer fur;But most of all beware of himWho makes my pen to stir--THe InsecureAnd AmateurImplacable Photographer! Beware lest, thieving for your thirst,An earwig's in the plum!Beware of folly, gay at first,That later makes you glum!Beware of pits when stars are dim,The tooth of vagrant cur;But most of all beware of himThat makes my pen to stir--The masterfulDisasterfulImplacable Photographer! Beware of angling in a streamWhose trout are not for you;Beware of trusting in a dreamThat's gone before the dew!Beware of truckling to a whim;Of folks that always purr;But most of all beware of himThat makes my pen to stir--The prematureAnd AmateurImplacable Photographer! Norman Rowland Gale


The Ballade Of The Glutton I'm greedy by nature, and often in vainHave lingered too long o'er the succulent hare,Accepting the jelly, ignoring the pain,Intent on receiving far more than my share.I worship the plover's egg, tasty and rare,And idolize fanciful French fricasses;But what, darling dainties, with you can compare,Soused salmon and lamb and young ducks and green peas? I ask for real turtle, again and again- Observe the Lord Mayor's John Thomases stare!For kitchen-recitals to Susan and Jane,And powdered impertinence, what do I care?I sit down to eat, and I vow and declare,I'd honour a dish were it made of stewed bees,Though loyal to you, should you chance to be there,Soused salmon and lamb and young ducks and green peas. I cherish a chef, be he Grecian or Dane;I even can relish a collop of bear;I love ev'ry calf- if it boasts a fine brain- And melt at a pullet, or even a pair.Though gold's on the table and stately the fare,I greet a grand entree with almost a sneezeIf you, dearest dainties, are sweet on the air- Soused salmon and lamb and young ducks and green peas. L'envoi: O Redcoats of England, who struggle and dare,Your glory's a morsel no glutton can please;My yearning is all for a soft-cushioned chair,Soused salmon and lamb and young ducks and green peas. Norman Rowland Gale


The Country Faith HERE in the country’s heart Where the grass is green, Life is the same sweet life As it e’er hath been. Trust in a God still lives,And the bell at morn Floats with a thought of God O’er the rising corn. God comes down in the rain, And the crop grows tall—This is the country faith, And the best of all! Norman Rowland Gale


The Decimal Point When first sent to School (now the Station was Rugby)I fancied my masters and took to the boys;I thought to myself--here 'tis plain I shall snug beRevolving at last in an orbit of joys:The Alphabet Grecian I quickly could stammer,Nor ran any risk of a jaw out of joint;I waddled sedately through Fatherland Grammar,But own I was floored by the Decimal Point! Le Roi de Montagnes was my Gallic translation,And soon I was praised by my master, who said:--"I certainly deem that, with good education,A Scholarship laurel should circle your head!"I revelled in idioms; I thrilled at the phrases;I knew how to render "avaunt" and "aroint,"But own that I shed many tears on the daisiesOf Rugby when stumped by the Decimal Point! I mastered the building proceedings of Balbus,And rarely omitted a requisite cum;I never remarked that an equa was albus,And deftly supplied the subjunctive with quum!No canis to me was a dog in the manger--A classic by Fate I was clearly anoint!I own, though, I ran into desperate dangerWhen fogged and be-fooled by the Decimal Point! Norman Rowland Gale


The Fairy Book In summer, when the grass is thick, if Mother has the time,She shows me with her pencil how a poet makes a rhyme,And often she is sweet enough to choose a leafy nook,Where I cuddle up so closely when she reads the Fairy-book. In winter when the corn's asleep, and birds are not in song.And crocuses and violets have been away too long,Dear Mother puts her thimble by in answer to my look,And I cuddle up so closely when she reads the Fairy-book. And Mother tells the servants that of course they must contriveTo manage all the househod things from four till half-past five,For we really cannot suffer interruption from the cook,When we cuddle close together with the happy Fairy-book. Norman Rowland Gale


The First Kiss On Helen’s heart the day were night! But I may not adventure there: Here breast is guarded by a right, And she is true as fair. And though in happy days her eyes The glow within mine own could please, She’s purer than the babe who cries For empire on her knees. Her love is for her lord and child, And unto them belongs her snow;But none can rob me of her wild Young kiss of long ago! Norman Rowland Gale


The Golden Game If ever there was a Golden GameTo brace the nerves, to cure repining,To put the Dumps to flight and shame,It's Cricket when the sun is shining!Gentlemen, toss the foolscap by,Gentlemen, change from books to leather!Breathe your fill of the breeze from the hill,Thanking Bliss for the great blue weather. If ever there was a bag could beatThe box possessed by Miss Pandora,'Tis that in which there cuddle neatThe tools to shape the flying Fourer.Gentlemen, watch the purple ball!Gentlemen, keep your wits in tether!Take your joy with the heart of a boyUnder the dome of the big blue weather. If ever I feel my veins aboundWith zealous blood more fit for Twenty,'Tis when upon the shaven groundFair Fortune gives me runs in plenty.Gentlemen all, while sinews last,Bat ye, bowl ye, friends together!Play the play till the end of your day,Mellowest mates in the big blue weather! But ever the ancient tale is told,And History (the jade!) repeated:By Time, who's never over-bowled,At last we find ourselves defeated.Gentlemen all, though stiff we be,Youth comes along in finest feather,Just as keen as we all have beenOut on the turf in the great blue weather! There's ever the deathless solace left-To gaze at younger heroes smiting,Of neither grit nor hope bereft,


Up to the end for victory fighting.Gentlemen all, we taste delight,Banished now from the stream and heather,Calm and cool on an old camp-stool,Watching the game in the big blue weather! Norman Rowland Gale


The Great Beech With heart disposed to memory, let me standNear this monarch and this minstrel of the land,Now that Dian leans so lovely from her car.Illusively brought near by seeming falsely far,In yon illustrious summit sways the tangled evening star. From trembling towers of greenery there heavesIn glorious curves a precipice of leaves.Superbly rolls thy passionate voice along,Withstander of the tempest, grim and strong,When at the wind's imperative thou burstest into song. Still must I love thy gentle music most,Utterly innocent of challenge or of boast,And playmate of the sun's adoring beam.Close kindred to thy softer tremblings seemThe sighs of her I covet, when she kindles in a dream. Oft at thy branching altar have I knelt,Searched for the secret, and thy lesson speltBefore the athletes of the night had doneTheir starry toil and joyous beams had runTo melt the ancient silversmith who loves the set of sun. When Spring was budding in my heart anew,Thy prayer for foliage soared into the blue.Within thy branches myriad children heard:Pale were their lips and fingers as they stirredAnd promised leafiness enough to tempt thy favourite bird. Quick was the wonder to amaze my sight:Where stood the leafless suppliant towered a knightGreen to the helm and touching lips with May!Far on the hill the wheatstalks stopped from playTo call across the valley love to leaves more fine than they. Then wert thou vocal, hospitable king!Safe in thy heart the birds were glad to sing,For dove and stormcock to thy breast had come;


And at the perfect hour a moony foamAnd starlight fell upon the thrush that made thy bosom home. As gentle gatherer of the weary wing,Happy to quaff from the eternal springThat damps the woodwren's feather-swollen breast,Thou lendest to my heart a deeper rest,Working with priceless balm a miracle for thy guest. On thee, in green and sunshine greatly stoled,Thy kindred of the undulating woldObeisance, as befits their stature, spend:Sweet is the embassy, with wind for friend,When lofty limes of Todenham Church their fragrant homage send. Rightly they worship. Rightly comes the maidTo look for love beneath thy bounteous shade;Rightly as these the village children haste,And with their sunburned fingers interlacedFasten a living girdle round thy cool and stalwart waist. For games and grief thou hast an equal heart,Giving to all petitioners the needed part.Often I ask the shape of him who fledTo drink of knowledge at the fountain-head:He pulses in the shadow as a fugitive from the dead. Old noble of the county, once we twainBeneath thy roof discoursed of bliss and pain;And, looking upward for the star Content,Laughed deep at soul to watch the sunbeams sentIn coveys glittering all along the field of firmament. If ever the travelled spirit can returnWhere once in earthly bliss 'twas proud to burnIn hard-won triumph over resolute clay,'Tis here my friend shall fold his wings and stayTo fill my unforgetting heart with tremulous holiday. The tryst is here. Brother, I shall not failWhether in Summer's ripeness, Winter's hail.Come most in Autumn's sympathetic charms,


When opal hazes touch the red-roofed farms,And in the night the beech-tree holds the red moon in his arms. And tell me, Brother, if the shining planOf resurrection chooses only man;If every friend of plain and upland dies.For I would have this turreted tree ariseTo lord it over beeches in the forest of Paradise. Fast in the ample chamber of his boleThere dwells, perchance, an unintelligible soulDestined to tower in some celestial wold,Where you and I, conversing as of old,May watch the Alps of Heaven become as mountains made of gold. Or bend to watch how cunningly the earthTangles our kin in webs of tears and mirth,And soils them even as they fly the stain;And, seeing this, may find that Heaven is vainTo keep earth-broken hearts from breaking in Heaven again Till shines the hour when Home is truly Home,With all the brave and dear familiars come:Assembled ripely in the lustrous sheafOf Love, and radiant in divine reliefFrom Joy that used to spoil the earth by whispering to Grief. Norman Rowland Gale


The Hidden Wealth Adam and Eve together stoodAmid the crop they both were tending,While far away the feathery woodOf Eden in the wind was bending. And Adam, feeling in his veinsThe better for his splendid tussle,Laughed at his body for its pains,And showed to Eve his hardening muscle. Fine was the bread his sweat had earned,Despite the fields of rock and thistle,While daily wounds and baulkings turnedHis olden softness into gristle. So, thinking deeply of the lifeOf chartered idleness and blisses,Suddenly he seized his comely wifeAnd took her mouth by storm with kisses. "Dear heart!" he cried, "we fare the bestWhen earth and labour roughly grapple.Who could have thought the only restWorth having, centred in an apple!" Norman Rowland Gale


This Peach Is Pink With Such A Pink This peach is pink with such a pinkAs suits the peach divinely;The cunning colour rarely spreadFades to the yellow finely;But where to spy the truest pinkIs in my Love's soft cheek, I think. The snowdrop, child of windy March,Doth glory in her whiteness;Her golden neighbours, crocuses,Unenvious praise her brightness!But I do know where, out of sight,My sweetheart keeps a warmer white. Norman Rowland Gale


To My Brothers O BROTHERS, who must ache and stoop O’er wordy tasks in London town, How scantly Laura trips for you— A poem in a gown! How rare if Grub-street grew a lawn! How sweet if Nature’s lap could spare A dandelion for the Strand, A cowslip for Mayfair! But here, from immaterial lyres, There rings in easy confidenceThe blackbird’s bright philosophy On apple-spray or fence: For ploughmen wending home from toil Some patriot thrush outpours his lay, And voices, wildly eloquent,The diary of his day. These living lyrics you may hear Remembering the lane’s romance, All hung in wicker heels to chirp Thin ghosts of utterance:But where the gusts of liberty Make Ragged Robin wisely bend, They quicken hedgerows with their song, Melodiously unpenned. If souls of mighty singers leaveThe vacant body to its hush, Does Shelley linger in the lark, Or Keats possess the thrush? The end is undecaying doubt, And in some blackbird’s bosom stillGreat Tennyson may sweeten eve And whistle on the hill. Come, brothers, to this clean delight, And watch the velvet-headed tit. Here ’s honest sorrel in the grass


And sturdy cuckoo-spit: What shepherds hear you shall not miss, And at deliverance of dawn Shall see a miracle of bloom Across the sparkling lawn. The forest musically begs To fan you with its leafy love; Oh, fall asleep upon this moss Entreated by the dove! Here shall that sweet Conservative,5Dear Mother Nature, lend to you Her lovely rural elements Beneath the primal blue. O brothers, who must ache and stoop O’er wordy tasks in London town,How scantly Laura trips for you— A poem in a gown! How good if Fleet-street grew a lawn! How sweet if garden-plots could spare A bed of cloves to scent the Strand,A pansy for Mayfair! Norman Rowland Gale


Wages My lass, when Godto suffer sent me,no gifts he gave,but only lent mefor gold, my breath,for silver, labour;the sky as a friend,the grass as neighbour. The Vineyard calledfor workers many;at eve I tookGod's punctual penny;Because I bowedcontent, I fancy,He gave me youfor wages, Nancy! Norman Rowland Gale


norman rowland gale - poems -

Documents